Smile
by WrittenSword
Summary: A view into Andy's and Miranda's heads on a regular working day. Andy/Miranda.


**A/N:** I started this as an exercise for writing in present tense and also from the first-person perspective. I've never done either before, so I'm still trying to find a style and how to make it all work. Oh and without actual dialogue. It's probably not very in character or very logical either, but I just kind of randomly jumbled some thoughts of theirs together. I'm not sure if it will make any sense, but it somehow has a plot. Kind of. There is a slight emotional progression I think.

* * *

**Smile  
**_by kendokuschi_

The first noise I hear when I slowly float to the surface, away from sleep, is the awfully cheerful voice of the radio DJ. There must be something wrong with that man. Nobody can possibly be in such a good mood at six in the morning on a Monday. I drag a pillow over my head and groan into the mattress.

The spot to my right is cold and empty, and the fact that Nate hasn't come home again, after going out for poker with his "buddies" last night, doesn't even stir anger in me anymore. So he's cheating on me. I feel indifference.

I slowly pull up my knees, press them into the bed and then prop myself up on my elbows to gain some sort of momentum to then slowly push away from the warmth and into the chill of the morning. It's fall now, and maybe it's time that I stop sleeping in shorts.

I pad into the bathroom on bare feet, literally feeling the urgent necessity to vacuum this place. I should have done that yesterday, Sunday being the only day I actually have time to do anything not work-related. However, after eradicating the large pile of dishes Nate had so graciously left for me, I had then simply collapsed on that filthy old couch and succumbed to much-needed sleep.

I pull a grimace at the ghostly face greeting me in the mirror and reach for the toothpaste. Sitting down on the thin rim of the bathtub I sluggishly brush my teeth and blink through the minuscule window into the reluctant dawn.

It amazes me that somehow, through all this dreariness, I still keep going. Every single day. And I don't try to question it, because thinking about it too deeply would pull me toward a crossroads, and I am not yet willing to chose a path.

I rinse my mouth and begin cleansing my face. Taking care of my skin is about the only indulgence I still allow myself. No more chocolate cake, no more hot baths - there simply isn't any time - and much to Nate's stubborn annoyance, no more Star Wars marathons deep into the night.

After pulling my hair back in a sleek ponytail and meticulously arranging my fringe, I begin applying makeup. I used to call it my war face, the layers of paint that would ready me for the daily office battles among the skinny barbies I so readily condemned and felt superior of. Now I have become one of them.

I guide the mascara brush along my lashes and wonder what colour Miranda's eye shadow will be today. She always makes everything look so effortless and perfect.

It's windy outside and I hear the howling through the narrow gap beneath the bedroom window. Maybe Miranda will wear that white trench coat today, which always hugs her hips so beautifully.

In a few practiced movements I pull out an acceptable ensemble from my overstuffed wardrobe. Long gone are the days where I would don a polyester blend sweater and grandma skirt and wail in frustration at the horror of my own reflection. The Gabanna slacks fit well with the caramel blouse Nigel insisted would go great with my eyes.

The radio station has switched to the news and I barely listen to reports on the depressing state of the world as I slip into my three-inch heels. They predict stormy weather - no kidding. Turning off the alarm radio I grab a brown Marc Jacobs clutch, my phone and my keys and leave the apartment.

The twenty-minute subway ride is always my zen moment of the day. I usually sit and stare into space, allowing my mind to remain blank as I prepare for the mentally violent onslaught of yet another twelve hours as Miranda Priestly's assistant. Like a trained pet I always know when my stop arrives and I hurry through the morning crowd as they reluctantly drag themselves to their offices like zombies.

The moment I enter the Starbucks across the street, the staff begin to compile my usual order. Or rather, _Miranda_'s order. I make a habit of bringing small gifts and a decent tip at least once a month, to thank for their promptness which really makes my life so much easier and less likely to be ended by the ice darts from Miranda's displeased gazes.

My friendly face coaxes the usual 'good morning' from the security guard at the Elias-Clark entrance as I rush into the elevator and check my appearance in the cabin mirror one last time, before exiting on floor seventeen and stalking through the door into the glass cage that is _RUNWAY_ magazine.

It's still early and Emily's spot is empty as I walk past and place the large paper cup on the desk of the inner office. A beep alerts me to a text message from Miranda's driver, signaling that she's on her way into the building, and I pour a glass of before arranging the stacks of rival magazines and her daily issue of the 'Herald Tribune' with the acquired skill of not leaving any finger prints on the impeccable glass surface.

A few seconds later I stand beside the elevator, notepad in hand, and tugging impatiently at my blouse. It has become a moment of blissful apprehension for me, knowing that every morning Miranda assesses me from head to toe, with that languid gaze I have become so adept at reading. In recent weeks she has continuously been pleased with my choice of clothes and I find myself actively choosing items in the mornings, that I hope will make her look twice.

Of course the 'Queen of Fashion' never directly offers praise, but the slight shift in her features and the twitch of her lips reveals her to me.

The doors slide open and I notice that today her eye shadow is blue. Subtle, but enough to give her that hooded, seductive gaze. I offer my standard morning greeting and feel her eyes travel along my entire form. Yes, there was definitively a tug to her lips and her eyes are sparking. The warmth from only that will sustain me for the rest of the day.

We walk side-by-side as she rattles off the first wave of instructions.

I need to get hat new game for the twins and postpone the editors meeting from nine to nine-fifteen. Have I gotten a reply from Patrick yet about the December spread? Yes, I have. The drafts are on her desk.

We walk into the outer office and I accept her coat and bag to hang in the closet behind my desk as she continues.

I will need to phone her lawyer and also contact Leslie from public relations. No eggs this morning, and my hair looks acceptable.

Wait. What? I know my eyes are wide as I watch her walk into her own office. Has she just complimented my hair in that guarded, noncommittal way of hers? She sits down in the black leather chair behind her desk and gives me a look I have trouble deciphering. She reaches for the coffee and before she takes a sip she dismisses me with her customary 'that's all'.

As I go about the tasks she has given me, I cannot help but glance at my hair in the reflection of the glass doors to the office and the warm buzz in the pit of my empty stomach will surely get me through the rest of the entire week.

* * *

That girl. That silly girl with her obscenely large doe eyes. I can practically see her light up whenever I direct my attention at her. It's a complete contrast to the incompetent masses who normally squirm under my gaze, if they're even brave enough to make eye-contact.

Andrea is different. She latches onto my every word, always eager to please and regardless of the mood I might be in, she has a constant, blinding smile at the ready whenever I call for her.

I allow the scalding coffee to burn a trail down my throat, a ritual that helps me remember my place in the universe and prevents me from succumbing to the arrogance my career requires. And although I make multi-million dollar decisions every single day, and the entire world of fashion looks at me for guidance, the scorching liquid in my stomach reminds me that I am only human.

It remains a challenge to be admired and feared, loathed and envied by everyone around you and not see yourself as some kind of god. My daughters do a good job of keeping me grounded. As does the coffee, so viciously fueling my increasingly harsher days.

Andrea, though, makes me feel human on a different level. Sometimes when she sits quietly beside me in the back of the car and I catch her dreamily gaze out of the window and at the world, with youthful wonder and appreciation, her sole presence fills me with life. There is something remarkably simple about her. I'm not sure if it's her raw beauty or her honesty, or maybe a combination of both.

When she looks at me, listening to instructions or an anger-motivated monologue on a specific cut, fabric or colour, Andrea doesn't just absorb the facts like a sponge, filing them away for further reference. No, she absorbs _me_.

I have come to rely on her more than I have ever relied on anyone before. Not just that she will accomplish any task I place into her hands - she has proven herself more than capable of achieving the impossible - but mostly I rely on her to simply _be there_.

Like standing at the ready by the elevator, when every morning I find myself strangely looking forward to seeing what clothes she might be wearing. Her style has increasingly grown more refined and although I know I have Nigel to largely thank for that, Andrea has learned so much in the past seven months that she has developed her own, personal sense of fashion.

And with something akin to apprehension I wait for her to deliver the Book to my town house every evening, when her features are softer, when she's tired from the long day and her shoulders have hints of that slight slump she constantly wore on her first few weeks in my employ.

It has become a habit that I call her into the sitting room, and have her directly bring the Book to me, rather than leaving it on the hallway dresser. I always regard her for a few moments before I dismiss her for the day, because there is a presence between us that I cannot seem to grasp. It hangs heavy in the dimly-lit room, in the quietness that flows through the house in those early hours of the night.

For me to not be able to define something, to catch it and pin it down and express it in shapes and colours, or in carefully constructed sentences, is disconcerting but also oddly liberating. I have spent many hours trying to understand this blatant entity that pulls me to Andrea, that makes me so fully involve her in my life.

Yes, there is something simple about her, but she is also a riddle.

I finish my coffee and look down at the last page of my daily paper. It seems I have browsed through it without reading a single word.

Andrea appears in the doorway, and as usual my eyes are drawn to her slender neck and those impossibly long legs as she confirms an appointment with my lawyer for tomorrow morning.

Oh, that's right. Divorce number three.

It's not like I haven't seen it coming. Marrying Stephen has been nothing but a miscalculation. A prenuptial agreement the length of the Bible, insuring our separate bedrooms and a few monthly public appearances and a steady allowance for him, has only gotten us as far as three years.

He simply couldn't be discreet with his mistress and my daughters ended up catching yet another father figure cheating on me. Of course the girl's didn't know that this union was purely a facade. A facade that has deteriorated far too quickly and makes me regret ever even considering it.

Maybe this 'Dragon Lady', as they love to call me, should just give up and remain single. To feed into the press' notion that I am a cold, heartless bitch who deserves to forever be lonely.

I lean back into my chair and watch Andrea scamper back into the outer office. She seems to be the only constant in my life lately. And although it has taken her some time to transform and fit into this world, she did it without losing her integrity. Without losing that warmth that is at her very core.

Maybe I subconsciously try to reach out to her because she is what I secretly long to be. The person I could have been, had I taken different paths. The choices I made throughout my life define who I am today and although I do long for some of that warmth, residing in that girl just outside my door, I'm sure it's not quite envy.

* * *

Emily is late. She's supposed to bring skirts and accessories from Calvin Klein for the run-through at one, less than ten minutes from now, and Miranda has left her office twice in the past hour, pointedly staring at the empty desk across from me and then turning to walk back to her desk with a sniff.

I wish I could somehow conjure up the other assistant to make sure everything remains according to schedule. At two Miranda is expected to attend a designer's showing in Soho and she has asked me to tag along.

Just as I'm about to dial Emily's number again the other assistant comes storming through the doors, arms loaded with at least a dozen bags and wheezing like a steam train.

She struggles to catch her breath as she mumbles something about traffic problems and that she had to run four blocks to get back here. I feel sorry for her, knowing that the frighteningly skinny redhead probably hasn't eaten her daily cube of cheese yet, and I rush over to relieve her off the clothes and carry them inside to Miranda who looks up from her leather-bound notebook and gives me the tiniest of nods.

I smile at her and ask if she needs me for anything else. She regards me for a moment, an index finger stroking along her chin and then perching on top her pursed lips as if she's considering something. I wait, straightening my shoulders as I watch the subtle changes play across her features.

She can communicate so much with such little effort. The only problem is, that not many people are fluent in 'Miranda'. And for the second time today, even _I_ feel the need for a dictionary, as the look in her eyes changes to something unreadable. I'm entranced. It's one of these moments between us, which have become quite frequent lately, where it feels as if unspoken words travel from her to me and I somehow, unknowingly, respond.

I feel the urge to reach out, but I'm not sure in what way exactly, and before I can fully despair at the conundrum, Nigel bolts into the room, followed by Jocelyn and Lucia, who look utterly rushed.

I refrain from waving at Miranda - what a childish impulse - and leave them to the run-through. I usually love to watch as they create groundbreaking new styles, defining what the masses would be wearing in the coming years, by choosing seemingly random items from a pile of _stuff_. That is a word I will always remember fondly - the way it fell from Miranda's lips the first time she ever berated me in front of my colleagues.

It has been one of my more embarrassing moments, but as I look back now, all I remember is the very informative and well-presented speech Miranda had given me.

I sit back behind my desk, dedicating myself to another list of tasks while still keeping my ears attuned to the flutter of conversation flowing from Miranda's office. I love hearing her talk in that soft, low voice. It makes me feel as if someone with intelligence is in control. Things will always be alright as long as Miranda is around, brushing over her quivering staff's egos with biting sarcasm and wit.

At twenty to two I already have her driver waiting outside as she glides in front of my desk and holds out her hand for her coat and bag. I move swiftly and in less than a minute I find myself in the elevator with her.

I still remember the exact day she began allowing me, as the only person other than Nigel, to ride in these small cabins with her. It is general knowledge that Miranda Priestly detests sharing confined spaces with people. Four months ago, on our way to a showing at James Holt's, she beckoned for me to join her in the tiny elevator of the Soho building.

I thought I had blown it the second I opened my mouth for trivial small talk once the doors had closed, however since then Miranda has consistently allowed me to ride with her.

The elevators at Elias Clark aren't small, but I no longer stand at an insultingly large distance from her when we travel together. We're never close enough to touch, but the scent of her perfume always finds its way to me, pulling me in, making me feel as if I'm allowed the privilege of absorbing more of Miranda than anyone else.

Well, there's still her husband, Stephen. Oh how I loathe the man. I always wonder what Miranda sees in him. He is truly and utterly unworthy of her, drunk far too often, and incredibly unreliable. Many times it has been my job as Miranda's assistant to rectify some of his blunders.

I shudder at the thought of that ungrateful weasel being close to Miranda. Owning permission to touch her. And to _know_ her. Well, sometimes I think he doesn't know her at all, going by the thoughtless gifts he sends in apology after one of his less fortunate moments.

Last week he actually sent freesias. I binned them before Miranda walked through the doors and although I aired all the offices, she still sensed the lingering smell. She detests those flowers. How is it possible that her husband, of all people, doesn't know that?

The cabin comes to a hold and we exit and swiftly breeze through the lobby and toward the waiting car. Well, Miranda does. I just stalk behind her like an intoxicated stork. She always moves so incomparably refined. I'm sure that everything she does is calculated, that's just who she is, but to me, it all seems so effortless and dreamy. As if she's a queen, the uncontested ruler, of an empire of elegance.

I slide into the car and sit beside her as we pull out into traffic. The rides are always quiet. We never talk. If I didn't know any better, I could swear that we simply exist at those moments, united in the silence between us. As if it is something we share.

But of course that is ridiculous. I'm sure Miranda's thoughts are racing a million miles per hour and not even touching anywhere near the insignificant entity that is me. She's one of those brilliant geniuses who sees the world in so much more complexity than others. Constantly creating with her mind. She recognizes beauty in extraordinary places where other people would never even look.

I shift in my seat and turn my gaze outside the window. It fills me with a sense of calm, something I welcome during the buzz of my working day. The town car is one of those modern vehicles that cancel out engine noise and it feels as if we're actually floating down the streets of New York, the world flying by in a jumbled rush, oblivious to the stillness of us.

* * *

She does it again. Looking out of the window with that blissful and dreamy expression, and something stirs in me. I nearly reach out, sensing a need to be close to her, to understand what is going on in that little head of hers. What is she thinking?

I know she wants to be a writer and I've read some of the articles she handed in as references during her interview. She has a unique way of viewing things. She might not be able to create beauty and she's not particularly artistic, but she appears to be a splendid observer. She notices all the little things when the world at large remains blind. She sees things from many different angles and is able to relate to everything around her.

Maybe that is why she excels at reading me, at understanding every subtle instruction, and even those I do not voice at all. I dare even say she knows me better than anyone else.

As Roy drives on I find myself lulled into this strangely peaceful bubble that extends around only Andrea and I. It feels as if we share something beyond words. It's quite comical how I can feel so at ease with a girl half my age, when I should really be finding this comfort in the arms of a husband or lover, preferably of my own generation.

This inexplicable, but undeniably strong connection I feel with Andrea used to scare me in the beginning. I tried to fight it and push her away. Only after a while have I come to the conclusion that it doesn't do any harm and that I can trust her.

Sometimes I wonder if she feels the same. If she feels this pull, this exhilarating kinship. Maybe she doesn't and thinks of me as a silly old woman who is desperately reaching out to one of the few people in her life who do not judge her or constantly expect the worst from.

I watch as she absentmindedly rubs her neck and I feel responsible for the tension in her shoulders. I wonder if I work her too hard. It's easy to pile more on the people who always do an excellent job and ease up on those who tend to screw up. And then I realise that I truly worry about her well-being.

It does shock me a little. I'm not known to actually care about anyone but my girls. Employees are there to work. The efficient ones are valuable, the incompetent ones are not.

As I allow the thoughts to linger I understand that Andrea is special. She somehow falls outside the role of a mere employee. She is important to me in ways other than being just a helpful hand.

I purse my lips as the fact of her leaving once her time is up hits me. In just a fraction of a second I already compile possibilities of keeping her around. She has a journalism degree - I will find her something in Features or maybe even in Editing.

She suddenly turns her head and looks straight at me, as if jostled by my racing thoughts. I know her expression. She wants to ask if I'm in need of anything. She studies my eyes and my lips. It's where I always expose myself. I can see the urge in her to speak, to be the incredible assistant she is and offer something in my unvoiced moment of need.

However I'm not entirely sure what exactly it is that I require, or whether she would be willing to give it.

We regard each other, ever silent. I feel as if whole oceans of unspoken words travel between us and the strain is wearing me down. I need to look away and it's a revelation, as I, Miranda Priestly, can usually hold and break any person's gaze.

I realise that this bond between us gives her power over me. It frightens me, but also presents me with a sense of solace. I wish I could let go and confide in her, and permit her to exert some of that power. Nobody ever takes care of me. I won't allow it. It's not who I am. Who I've become.

The car arrives at its destination and I don't wait for Roy to open the door for me. I need to regain some of my control by storming out of the car and crossing the sidewalk in a flurry. Andrea is close behind me and I'm glad this particular designer has a ground floor studio.

* * *

Miranda is distracted. I'm not quite sure what could be weighing on her mind so heavily, pulling her attention away from these truly abominable dresses. The showing is a disaster, but Miranda has barely even acknowledged it. The designer seems at a loss as the textbook Miranda reactions of nods and pursed lips do not appear and instead she just sits and seemingly stares through the entire collection.

What could it be? Was it Stephen, that jerkface? She did have me arrange a meeting with her lawyer earlier and I contacted Leslie as well. I sincerely hope he hasn't done anything that would embarrass her. I already hate the press, a crowd I would have loved to work with in a journalism career, but the more filthy lies they write about Miranda, the harder I find it to respect them.

I see her straighten her shoulders and snap back into the present. It takes her a nano second to evaluate the clothes and she rises from her seat with a severe pursing of the lips and then calls for me as she swiftly leaves the studio.

Roy is waiting in front of the building and we ride in customary silence back to the office. I get the feeling the thick ropes between us have grown stronger and they are pulling at me. She doesn't look at me during the ride, and I have trouble keeping up as she storms into the building. She still waits for me in the elevator, though, and I hurry inside and accidentally brush her shoulder.

Electricity jolts through me at the contact. I know better than to apologise and quickly reposition myself by her side. It isn't the first time we touched - she often pulls me closer by the arm to give instructions at function or meetings - but this time I could feel her, truly _feel_ her unguarded self.

The ride up is quiet again and I wonder if by now she shouldn't have given me some kind of task. Deal with the designer! Find a new one! Design a collection yourself! Any of those would be considerably normal, coming from Miranda, but the lack of instruction is what starts to worry me. She doesn't even ask for coffee.

I follow her back to the office and take her coat and bag, which, redundant or not, at least gives me a sense of purpose. As I turn from the closet I find her looking at me. Unreadable expression number three. I offer a smile, one of those which I lately find myself only directing at her. There's a tug at her lips but I'm unsure as to whether it was supposed to become a snarl or a sarcastic grin.

She faces Emily, who has been silently observing our exchange, and tells her to go home. I frown because it's only three in the afternoon. The other assistant's eyes are big but she complies and gathers her things as Miranda wordlessly moves into the inner office. There is a lot of hostility coming from Emily as she walks past me, but I busy myself with my overflowing email inbox and ignore her.

For the next four hours Miranda doesn't leave her desk. She asks me to postpone all meetings until tomorrow and has me even turn back Nigel, who needs her approval for the February cover proofs. Not once does she ask me to run to Starbucks.

I truly worry now. It's very unlike her and I understand that, for a while now, I have cared for her as more than just my boss. Everything I do is to please her, whether it has anything to do with my job or not. I want to see her content, and as impossible as it sounds, I want to make her smile. Not one of her fake, plastered smiles that she reserves for ambassadors or Irv Ravitz. No, I want to see her truly smile. And I want her to smile for me, and me alone.

At seven-thirty I finally gather my courage and walk toward the doorway separating our space. Her chair is turned toward the window and I can see her reflection in the window, against the darkened evening skyline. Her eyes are closed and her hands are folded in front of her chest, her elbows propped on the arm rests of her chair

She looks so peaceful that I am hesitant to disturb her and for a while I just stand there, looking.

* * *

I sense Andrea in the doorway. She doesn't sniffle like Emily, or wheeze like Nigel, but still I always know when she's around. I can feel her gaze on me and it warms me.

Without warning I open my eyes, staring right back at her through the reflection. We remain still, unmoved, but our eyes lock and my heart begins beating faster. I can practically read the thoughts off her face. She is torn between leaving and stepping closer. I wonder which one she will chose but then I realise that I want to her to stay.

Again it is the power she has over me that makes me swing around the chair and face her directly. She cocks her head, ever so slightly, biting on that full, lower lip of hers, until she slowly pushes off the door frame and takes a step forward.

She doesn't need to speak, I know she's asking whether I need anything and through my face I communicate that I don't. I'm lying, though, because I _do_ need something. I just don't know how to ask it.

Andrea frowns and regards me with a quizzical impressions. She knows there is something else. She can feel it. The thought reassures me that I am maybe not alone in this. That this is not a monologue on my part, and that she feels something, too.

She slowly walks around my desk. Her face suddenly glows, as if she finally understands something after puzzling over it for eons. Now she's standing before me, looking down at me like an angel, the warmth from inside her flowing over me like the soft tickle of sun rays on a late summer afternoon.

I try to grasp at it. Inhale it. Make it wrap itself around me.

I feel myself ache for her and when I see her arm twitch, as if she was just about to reach out, I lean forward and grasp her hand in mine.

It startles us both and our joint gazes land on the entwining fingers. I look on in a trance as my thumb slowly begins to stroke across her knuckles and my heart skips a beat at the unmistakable sound of her gasp.

Have I ever before experienced such an electrifying connection through physical touch? I can't remember. I am quite certain that I haven't.

She steps closer and grips my hand a little tighter. Now it is I who gasps, as her leg brushes against mine. She stands so close that I can smell her intoxicating scent and feel the heat radiating off her body.

Our eyes are still locked and I feel completely lost as she slowly bends down and props her free hand on the arm rest, her face coming to a stop a mere few inches from mine. Her breath caresses my lips and her gaze darts between my eyes, searching for permission, for some kind of signal that want this as much as she hopefully does.

On its own accord my other hand reaches for her neck and gently pulls her closer until our lips brush in the lightest, feathery kiss. She is so soft and I need more. I tug at her and we press into each other more firmly. Her lips move under mine and it exhilarates me to hear her hum.

The connection between us dramatically increases in intensity and feel myself come apart as her tongue strokes over my lips.

* * *

Miranda tastes so wonderful. She's everything. She's like the universe. Everything I could ever possibly need. I drown in her flavour as our lips and tongues dance together in waves of need.

Then realisation hits me. I'm kissing my boss. My _married_ boss. I pull away.

She looks at me, first shocked, and then with that typical narrowing of her eyes when she's thoroughly displeased. Her cheeks are flushed and her lipstick is smeared and I suddenyly understand that I have never wanted anyone as much as I want her.

I mumble about her husband, which slightly sobers her expression, but then she whispers about a divorce and now I understand why I had to make the earlier arrangements.

Thoughts race through my head and I have trouble catching them as her hand gently holds onto mine and her thumb does wonderful things to my palm.

Nate pops up in my mind, but I have already known for some time that we are over. I wonder what Miranda expects of me. What I am to her. If she actually wants a relationship. Whether I will be fired in the morning or would need to quit.

Then she reaches out and pulls at me, and I let her guide me onto her lap. We gaze at each other and all of my thoughts dissipate. Her eyes glow and I recognise the expression on her face as the one I had trouble deciphering several times, earlier today. She wants me. Needs me.

I don't care about the consequences. Somehow this just feels so very right, and I lean forward and capture her sweet mouth in another kiss. She lets go of my hand and wraps her arms tightly around my middle and I have never felt this secure in my life.

Softly trailing my fingers through her hair I moan at the softness of her. And then suddenly I feel her smile against my lips. I want to see it, but I cannot bring myself to pull away. Instead I hope, and plan, that I will make her smile a lot more often in the future.

**The End**


End file.
